“What the deuce!” Old Tom came close to the door. “You whimpering! You put a man in a beast of a bed—you drive him half mad—and then begin to blubber! Go away.”
“I am so sorry, sir!”
“If you don’t go away, ma’am, I shall think your intentions are improper.”
“Oh, my goodness!” cried poor Mrs. Hawkshaw. “What can one do with him?” Mrs. Mel put Mrs. Hawkshaw behind her.
“Are you dressed?” she called out.
In this way Mrs. Mel tackled Old Tom. He was told that should he consent to cover himself decently, she would come into his room and make his bed comfortable. And in a voice that dispersed armies of innuendoes, she bade him take his choice, either to rest quiet or do her bidding. Had Old Tom found his master at last, and in one of the hated sex? Breathlessly Mrs. Hawkshaw waited his answer, and she was an astonished woman when it came.
“Very well, ma’am. Wait a couple of minutes. Do as you like.”
On their admission to the interior of the chamber, Old Tom was exhibited in his daily garb, sufficiently subdued to be civil and explain the cause of his discomfort. Lumps in his bed: he was bruised by them. He supposed he couldn’t ask women to judge for themselves—they’d be shrieking—but he could assure them he was blue all down his back. Mrs. Mel and Mrs. Hawkshaw turned the bed about, and punched it, and rolled it.
“Ha!” went Old Tom, “what’s the good of that? That’s just how I found it. Moment I got into bed geese began to put up their backs.”
Mrs. Mel seldom indulged in a joke, and then only when it had a proverbial cast. On the present occasion, the truth struck her forcibly, and she said: